Crossroads
by Hinkyponk
Summary: POST-REICHENBACH John is mourning Sherlock when he finds an unexpected visitor and a new purpose: proving Sherlock's innocence and destroying the remains of Moriarty's network. More than one ghost will haunt him on the way.
1. Chapter 1

It had been two months since John had watched Sherlock die, and it felt like time had stopped.

John disliked being helpless, it was a state that made him sick in itself, and he really was trying to move on. He'd rented a new flat, closed the damn blog, and resumed his complicated relationship with his bloody therapist. He knew about grieving, he knew about human life escaping his hands, he knew all about being alone and powerless. He could do this, he told himself. He was a soldier, he was a doctor, and truly death was the only companion he'd ever managed to keep on a long-term basis. He _could_ deal with it.

He walked for hours every day, kilometers of walk through every London street, it exhausted his body and made his mind empty. He kept track of the routes, trying new ones each time, never thinking beyond the walk, never reflecting on whatever his eyes were looking for, because that abyss was too deep and if he looked into it he might fall and never recover. He only came back to his apartment when he could hardly stand on his own legs anymore, all energy drained from him. It helped with the sleeping thing. He still hadn't got a very good grip on that, but he would just keep working on it. Just go forward and don't turn back and don't _think_.

If he had been honest with himself, he would have admitted that he was merely dancing with the darkness, not getting away from it, but he wasn't, despite the well-meant efforts of his therapist and his friends. John Watson was a veteran at self-deceiving, he'd had more than one occasion to train.

Unfortunately, there was no keeping the phantoms away when they really wanted to mess with your head. One day, in the middle of one of his morning walks, he crossed path with one of them. He didn't recognize it at first because of the unusual clothing, but one look at that smile and a river of unwanted memories flooded the mind he had so carefully kept blank.

"You're dead," he said, as if commenting on the weather.

"Evidence seems to prove otherwise."

"Well, I don't care anymore," he replied. "Go be alive or dead somewhere else." He walked away, but she followed him.

"Oh, no, you're not getting rid of me, Doctor Watson," said Irene Adler.

"Sherlock's not here," he hissed. He was painfully aware of how inappropriate that formulation was, but he didn't like to say _Sherlock __is __dead_. It felt so horribly wrong.

"I know," the woman answered, a hint of impatience in her voice. He had a quick look at her. She had the clothes and composure of a woman in her early fifties, not too posh, rather middle-class. Glasses were hanging around her neck and she was wearing low-quality jewelry. He had a sudden memory of Sherlock in disguise and his meticulous attention to detail. He pushed the thought away.

"You're hiding."

She smiled.

"Of course. Some of the most dangerous men in this country sleep happily at night believing I'm dead, I don't want to upset them if I can avoid it."

"Then why come here?" he asked, irritated. "I'm pretty sure I was happier when you were dead too."

"Because there are things I don't understand, for example those absurd newspapers stating that Sherlock Holmes jumped from a roof and killed himself," she retorted. "_Sherlock __Holmes __the __fake __detective_, they say. _Couldn__'__t __stand __facing __the __truth.__Paid __a __third-rate __actor __to __play __Moriarty_. Should I go on?"

John stopped dead and faced that oh, so beautiful woman, that devious creature who'd worked hand in hand with Moriarty and come so close to destroy Sherlock herself, not that long ago.

"_What_ do you want from me?"

"The truth."

"Well, if you ever find it, be kind enough to tell me." He moved to turn around but she grabbed his arm.

"Please!"

He paused. Irene Adler, he knew, was as unlikely to beg as Sherlock himself. She'd lost pretty much everything thanks to the detective, yet she loved him. He knew that because in that respect, they had more in common than he cared to admit. Did she honestly want to know about Sherlock, or did she have some kind of hidden agenda? And if she did, did it matter? What _did_ matter, now that Sherlock was… not here anymore? He sighed and gestured towards a nearby park.

They walked together to a bank facing a small lake and sat there in silence for a moment. Maybe Irene felt that she had to let John take his time. She showed no impatience or sign that she would speak first. He leaned forward, looking blankly at the water, as if he wasn't addressing anyone in particular. And he started telling. The Reichenbach case and its unexpected fame, the Tower of London, the trial of the century, the girl who screamed, the journalists turning against the now famous detective like bulldogs, getting arrested by Lestrade, hiding at Barts, and then…

And then…

And then.

When he'd finished telling her about Sherlock's confession on the roof of the hospital, he just kept watching at the sky, half expecting her to stand up and go. She stayed though, just quiet for a while.

"Why would Sherlock tell such a lie when he was about to die?" she finally asked.

John glanced at her, startled. He'd waited for weeks to hear those words from someone, anyone. All the newspapers had told the same ridiculous story and everyone, even those who'd witnessed Sherlock's talent for years, believed it. The reality, the one where Sherlock was the brilliant consulting detective, the genius who had successfully solved about a hundred cases, seemed buried and forgotten forever. As if Moriarty had hacked into people's minds and deleted it. Sometimes John couldn't even tell whether he was the only sane person in the area, or if he had lost his mind entirely and hallucinated everything.

"You don't doubt him then?" he asked.

"Don't be absurd. I know what I see. I knew exactly who Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were. It very much fits Moriarty to set up a stage of that magnitude just to prove he was the best one," she said thoughtfully.

He nodded.

"You don't seem to understand what it means, though," she added coldly.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Sherlock Holmes' little monologue on the roof of the hospital."

John frowned.

"I don't understand."

"Then think!" she snapped. "Why would Sherlock tell such a lie when he was about to die? Why would he deny everything he was, admit Moriarty's tale, to you, of all people?"

John abruptly stood up and quickly walked away, suddenly wishing he'd never listened to her. Because this was so close, so very close to the darkness, and he felt if he kept looking into it he would be swallowed entirely. He had to be far, far away from here very quickly.

"Doctor Watson! Running away doesn't suit you."

He shivered and turned around. As she walked towards him, for an instant he remembered her standing in a living room entirely naked and absolutely at ease. In Irene Adler's world, she made the rules and anything else complied. John wasn't in any state to resist her. So what? Who cared if he just broke down to pieces on this rather untidy lawn? Did he really want to hide from the truth just to survive? Maybe she was right. Running away did not suit him.

"Tell me what you think," she demanded.

"Once you remove the impossible, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth," he whispered.

For an instant, she looked confused.

"Sorry, what?"

"That's what he always said," he told her in a breath. "It's simple, isn't it? His suicide and his… message, all of that belonged to Moriarty's story. It was the climax of those juicy revelations to the press. All part of his scheme. So the logic tells us that it was his doing. This… maniac got Sherlock on that bloody roof, made him make that phone call. He didn't commit suicide. He was _forced_ to jump. Moriarty could have killed him, he could have just shot a bullet through his head, end of the story, but no, no, that was too easy, not imaginative enough, was it? Make him loose everything, all that made him who he was, even me, he tried to take my faith in him, and then make him _kill __himself_."

He pressed his hands against his face, fighting the nausea. Irene Adler smiled and nodded approvingly.

"Good deduction. So what are you going to do now, Doctor Watson?"

"What do you expect me to do?" he roared. "What can I do except buy bloody flowers? I'll go and keep walking. Now go _away_."

"Do you not want revenge?"

He laughed and looked at the gray London sky, so close to burst into tears.

"Revenge from whom?"

He had a gesture towards the buildings around him.

"I mean, I could destroy some newspapers, burn down Scotland Yard, perhaps even set fire to the whole city, but what would be the point? Sherlock won't come back and Moriarty is dead already."

"Is he really?" she smiled quizzically. "Moriarty was much more than just a man."

"A spider," John whispered, remembering Sherlock's own words.

"Something like that, yes. The spider's gone but the net is still there. It might not work as smoothly without its head, but it works nonetheless. Without it, Moriarty could never have beaten Sherlock Holmes."

John sighed and shook his head. He felt so tired, he didn't want to keep talking about that, it was painful.

"You want me to take down Moriarty's network."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Personal reasons."

He looked at her in the eyes – those unreadable eyes.

"Do you expect me to trust you?"

"Listen," she sighed. "I've been hiding from Moriarty's people for the last year. It's boring and annoying. I want my life back, and before that happens I need to do a bit of... cleaning up. To be honest, I rather hoped that Sherlock Holmes would save me the trouble. I do have to thank him for Jim Moriarty's death, though. Mr. Homes' public rehabilitation would be an appreciated bonus to our little adventure."

"You do realize how ridiculous it is to go against a whole criminal organization on our own?"

She merely smiled. John nodded.

"Alright, then. Let's do it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A phone was ringing somewhere. John reached for it in the darkness, still half asleep. Not on the bedside table. Bugger. With the deep sigh of the sleep deprived interrupted in the middle of a rare moment of rest, he turned the light on and stood up to follow the annoying noise. Kitchen table, apparently. He finally got hold of the phone and hesitated.

Harry.

He wasn't sure he wanted to deal with Harry right now. Talking to his sister was never particularly relaxing. After a second of hesitation, he took the call.

"Hello Harry, what's up?"

He regretted it instantly.

"Hey, it's me! I'm sad tonight. Are you sad too? Why don't you come home?"

She was well after her second bottle, by the sound of it.

"Well, maybe because it's six in the morning."

"Really? Still dark outside. Night's not over, John!" she said cheerily, before she suddenly broke into tears. "Cassie… Cassie's gone."

"Maybe she wanted to get some sleep." The sarcasm went unnoticed.

"Nononono. She _left_ left."

More sobs. John thought he should probably feel sorry for his sister, but found he didn't. He was too tired and his heart was too empty.

"I screwed up, John. With Cassie. I sooo screwed it up. I'm so stupid. I don't know what to do. Come over, please!"

He sighed.

"I can't. I have to start packing."

"Packing? What packing? Where you going?"

"It's just a trip," John explained, ignoring the slight panic in his sister's tone. "I met an old friend a few days ago. She has a house in France and she invited me over. I think it's a good idea to get away from London for a little while. It'll be nice."

"But…but… You come back soon?"

"Of course," he lied. "It's just for a week or two. I have to go, now. Bye, Harry."

He hung up and turned the phone off. He wasn't truly worried for his sister. She wouldn't miss him. She didn't love him, not really. Didn't love Cassie or Clara, neither. If anyone owned her heart, it was a bottle of vodka.

He had another look at the clock and sighed. Some more sleep would have been nice, but even if he got back to bed, that was unlikely to happen. Tea, then. Tea almost always helped.

While John started to prepare breakfast, not entirely awake yet, he slipped into one of his daydreams. Sherlock's shadow, always present in his head, turned around to stare at him disapprovingly. John didn't dare to look back.

"It's foolish, John," said the Sherlock in his mind.

"Yes, it is."

"You can't trust her."

"I don't."

"She will use you."

"Yes."

"You're so stubborn."

"I'm not stupid, though."

Sherlock's shadow looked slightly startled.

"What do you mean?"

John looked blankly at the kettle which was starting to boil. He briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I mean you wouldn't jump from a roof just because someone pointed a gun at you. You'd choose the gun anytime. So how did he force you to do it?"

Sherlock stilled.

"I know you better than you think."

"John…"

"You know what is hardest for me to forgive you?" he muttered. "It's you letting me go. _Alone is what I am. Alone protects me._ All this… this crap. You knew this phone call was a fake and you still waved me goodbye. You went on your own. You always, always have to go alone, always think you'll manage it all by yourself. And I… I played right into it. John _fucking idiot_ Watson. If only I was a little bit smarter..."

"Enough!"

John bit down a sob.

"Breathe," said Sherlock's voice in his head. "Don't allow yourself to be overwhelmed. Don't dwell uselessly on what you cannot change. You need to stay focused. Concentrate on what is ahead of you."

John pressed his hands against his forehead, fighting the storm of anger and guilt, turning it back into silent emptiness.

"If you are going to do this, then at the very least, don't die easily. Keep thinking. I'm not here to do it for you this time. Remember everything I taught you. Whatever happens, do _not_ stop thinking."

He nodded. Yes. That was what Sherlock would do. Bottle it up. Don't look back. Cool down. And then, with a cold and clear head, give it all he had. Just get on with breakfast, John Watson. You need the bloody tea.

The trip to France was a necessary precaution and it had to be organized carefully. John had no idea whether or not he was still being watched, either by Moriarty's people or Mycroft's secret service. He probably wasn't - the only reason he'd ever been relevant to them was Sherlock. John Watson on his own was just an unemployed ex-army doctor with a bad shoulder. But there was a slight chance that someone, somewhere, was still keeping an eye on him. They couldn't afford the risk, considering what they were planning to do.

He had to disappear, preferably in a way that wasn't too suspect or unusual. An accident would do nicely. Irene had initially wanted to plan something elaborate with a fake body, but John had declined. A lot of his personal data was in the hands of the army (an institution which had a long experience in identifying damaged corpses); there would be many people to fool or buy favours from. Too complicated, too risky. His scenario was less clever, much more straightforward. More John-style.

He sat on the bed with his cup of tea. _Think_, said Sherlock's voice in his mind. _Leave no loose ends_. Well, at some point someone would be checking his luggage and his flat. He had to pack as if he was really going to have a two-week holiday in the south of France. Do whatever seemed natural: check the weather there... tell some of his friends...

For a brief moment, he thought of Sherlock's grave, but he repressed the temptation. It was better not to go to that place.

He stood up and walked to the window. Outside there was nothing but typical London weather to greet him: a low sky and a half-hearted rain (the kind that didn't make you really wet but was just enough to put you in a horrible mood). On any other day, John would have taken note of that and still gone out for a walk. But the time to rest was over now. Somewhere a battlefield was waiting for him.

That road wasn't a healthy one. It was paved with despair and hatred and even if he survived it, there would be no happy end waiting for him. Despite that, he didn't feel any hesitation or fear.

If he was honest with himself, these days John Watson didn't feel anything much.

* * *

_Ferry to Calais_

"Another whisky, please."

The waiter frowned at him. He was probably wondering whether it was time to send this lonely ex-soldier back to his seat, before he became hopelessly drunk. John could hold his liquor but he had to admit, he was beginning to feel lightheaded. He had to time it well… A poor actor like himself couldn't hope to play the drunk while being completely sober, so the drinking wasn't an option. It had to look real, it was important, he had to empty enough glasses that people would notice and remember. Too much alcohol in his blood, however, could rapidly become dangerous given the second half of his evening program.

"Are you sure, sir?" the waiter asked hesitantly. "It's getting a little late."

"No, no, no. Is alright. Just anoder… anotha one," he insisted, overplaying it a bit.

"You look tired."

"Yeah. I'm gonna go to bed soon. Just one more. Come oooon."

John gave him that you're-my-buddy smile he could only manage when he was past the fourth glass. The waiter didn't seem convinced, but decided to comply, no doubt hoping that this somewhat excessive passenger would go back to his seat afterwards. Tomorrow, John knew, he would regret having poured that whisky. Tomorrow he would wonder if he could have prevented it all. Perhaps he would never forget about the small lonely man who wasn't quite good enough at faking cheerfulness. Part of John was feeling sorry for him, but it was a part that was buried under a heavy load of anger and pain.

He sipped at his last whisky. Maybe that was pushing his luck, but this way he made sure the waiter would remember being worried about him. It would be alright.

He emptied the glass, and decided to argue a little about another last one with the waiter – not too much though, not enough that he lost his patience and called security. Finally, he stood up to leave.

Maybe he _had_ overdone it a bit… He had trouble to keep his balance. Well, it was a ship, it was rocking all over the place, so it was bound to feel worse than on land. Or maybe he hadn't eaten enough. Finally out of the bar and into the corridor, he leaned for an instant against the wall. He felt slightly nauseous. Not very good, but he had to keep going. It was nearly time. The door he needed was only a few meters away…

When he opened the door to the deck, the chillness of the night made him suddenly shiver. It was colder than expected. He bent over the rail and watched the darkness underneath. The ship was leaving wide tumultuous tracks in the water. It occurred to him that if Irene Adler had wanted him to die, this plan would be the setup of a perfect murder. If she was just a little too late… He chuckled. Who'd have believed he would one day put his very life in the hands of The Woman?

John lifted himself on the rail, sitting on it with his feet over the water. He wasn't shivering anymore.

"How did you feel standing on that roof, looking down at me?" he asked Sherlock.

The shadow in his mind stared at him, but didn't answer. He shook his head. He'd promised to focus. Falling wrong could very well kill him and it was too early to die yet. He looked around. He needed someone to see him. One unfortunate witness… There was a young giggling couple at the other end of the ship. After a few minutes of kissing and happily chatting, the woman spotted him. John let go. He briefly heard her scream before he hit the water.

For an instant, he thought the icy water would kill him. Frozen to the core, he struggled against the flow. His soaked clothes were dragging him down. He couldn't think properly. Cold… Need to breathe…Waistband.

His right hand reached for the small propulsor at his side, numb fingers searching blindly for the trigger. Here. Now. Compressed air was ejected, dragging him back to the surface. He gasped and looked around: the ferry was leaving him behind. Eventually, the message that someone had fallen from the ship would reach the captain, but it was impossible to find a man in the middle of sea in a night this dark. The chances were they wouldn't even try and wait for the morning before they sent anyone to rescue him. By then John would be somewhere nice and warm, very far away – hopefully.

His entire body was shivering and moving was a hard, painful business. He took a deep breath. All he had to do was hold on, wait until she picked him up. The GPS he was wearing made sure she would know where to find him, and her boat probably wasn't that far. Couldn't take more than a few minutes. Two or three, maybe five. Let's say five minutes. He tried to count the seconds under his breath but found he lost track at about twenty. It was hard to concentrate on anything but staying at the surface. The sea was much worse than he'd hoped.

He thought about all those whisky he'd been drinking on the ferry and swore he would never swallow the dreadful stuff ever again. John knew, being a doctor, that alcohol didn't keep people warm. It kept them cold. Made the body dilapidate its energy, quickly, very quickly, and sucked it away into the wind and the water. In this situation, every single glass effectively reduced his life expectancy. Shouldn't kill him immediately, though. He could probably even survive a couple of hours. The thought didn't make it more comfortable. Surely the five minutes had passed by now. Maybe even more than five. Couldn't take much longer now. Couldn't… Where was she? And why on earth was he half drunk in the Channel in the middle of the night? Didn't remember anymore. He tried calling for help, but found he couldn't.

Finally, a hand grasped him under the arm and dragged him out of the water. A heavy blanket was thrown on him, and all John could do was mutter some thanks and close his eyes. "Don't!" A voice snapped. "You're a doctor, for God's sake! Have some sense. Stay awake."

The voice had a point. He was a doctor, he could vaguely remember that. He was also a soldier and he knew what it meant when someone decided to rest when he really shouldn't. He forced himself to move, trying to sit. The hand came back, supporting him. He was on a small motor boat. It was speeding up. Kate was sitting at the wheel, wrapped in a warm coat. The hand gripping his arm was Irene's. She was checking his pulse and his pupils.

"The yacht isn't too far away. We'll warm you up there. Are you insane or just suicidal? I told you to buy a few drinks, not to get completely drunk!"

"You…late," he breathed.

"We did what we could. The weather got worse than we expected. It's our luck, though. It's delaying the helicopters."

"Heli…what?" That didn't make any sense whatsoever. You didn't look for someone with bloody helicopters in the middle of the night.

"Yes. It seems that you are still quite important to someone, somewhere."

"Who? Mycroft? Why?"

"I don't know," Irene replied. "That is certainly interesting. Mycroft Holmes did not strike me as a sentimental kind of person: If he's monitoring you, it's not out of kindness. As for Moriarty's network, I wonder why they should have any interest in keeping you alive. There is something here… But I'm not sure what it is."

John nodded, trying to suppress the shivers which were shaking his body from head to foot.

"So," he said, his voice still very unsteady, "what do we do now?"

"You mean after we prevent your dying from utter stupidity? We go back to London. There is a man we need to talk with."

* * *

**Thank you for the reviews! **

**Hinky **


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